


Stars and Endless Darkness

by drvology



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, fic-a-month, my 2018 challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 20:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17250497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drvology/pseuds/drvology
Summary: Brief Dad-Finds-Out preseries AU.





	Stars and Endless Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> For the last day of the last month of the year I went back to an old wheelhouse and some fave tropes. || In 2018 I'm hoping to write 1 fic a month. This is 12/12. Fic for December. I made it.

Dean didn't try to bluff past or explain what Dad discovered. Impossible.

Dad stood in the door of their dark bedroom and saw everything.

There's nothing beyond the it's-exactly-what-you-think. Him and Sammy, naked and wonderfully pungent under the sheet he managed to pull over them before being pulled under, so gone on one another asleep. Him and Sammy, obviously together after spending one another for hours, Sammy tucked into his front pillowed on his arm, his hand between Sammy's legs.

There's nothing in him that can deny it, anyway. He tried once—twice, again, too many times—to himself and to Sammy, despite his hunger and ways he needed Sammy while Sammy yearned and they pretended or ignored or caught the other in an angry accusing kiss that didn't end in comfortably sated sleep.

It was a fight he utterly lost. The first in the war of their lives with Sammy at stake and first he finally didn't recriminate himself over or regret. Because he's always been lost to Sammy and Sammy gets lost in him, the only place they're content and whole. He won't look his father in the eye and betray that.

They separate, meet again at the foot of the bed to hurry into their clothes, touch and touch and touch in hasty worried gestures.

Not enough reassurance in them. More like agony to Dean, hot over his skin that burns with terrible premonition. He can feel Sammy's fear, Sammy's equal awareness nothing is the same now and can't be, but they step into the too-bright kitchen and stand shoulders together to confront their father.

Dad wasn't supposed to be around for a month and a half. Gone a month and a half already—near the entire summer, him and Sammy making house in a ramshackle lake cabin abandoned years ago and tackling hunts in the drivable area. Him and Sammy making dinner and tackling each other in the yard, into the water, into bed. Him and Sammy making the most of the best thing they have.

They never risked this in anticipation of his return. Nothing but endless necking and wandering hands on the couch or big easy chair or deep windowsill, depending where they're crashing, close to when Dad's expected. They sleep carefully, carefully in the same room or space as Dad expects, carefully not doing anything untoward.

Dean knew Dad could find out. It wasn't a given but certainly no impossibility, and aside taking Sammy and running—they discussed, they couldn't quite make work yet—no sigil or safeguard was foolproof. Dean remained alert, suspicious, his protective instincts for Sammy in overdrive. Wasn't enough.

Maybe Dad came back early, unannounced, with suspicions of his own.

That doesn't shock Dean, somehow.

Dad won't look at him and glares at Sammy by turns. Mouth white at the corners, eyes sunken and flashing, a stillness about him that suggests a readiness to strike.

Sammy shifted and Dean grabbed Sammy's wrist. Dad's anger erupted, blazing. He yelled and glowered by turns. Drinking while yelling and then drinking during an awful silence crackling with anger.

None of it shocked Dean and no reason for it to.

Dad is forever angry and that Dean relies on. It's almost reassuring. A constant background hum.

Dean knew he could withstand Dad's anger and protect Sammy from most of it.

He tilted his hips and stayed on the balls of his feet ready to do so.

Dad checked his watch, counted internally, and Dean's hackles raised. He glanced at them. "Say goodbye," he grunted and roughly grabbed Sammy's arm.

Dean stepped forward and Sammy sidled next to him and they wouldn't part. They wouldn't.

Couldn't.

What shocked him was Dad blamed Sammy.

He tried to argue, to redirect Dad's anger. Managed to take the heavy, open-handed hits and balled up fists that came their way. Dad called Sammy dangerous, selfish, manipulative. A monster.

Of course Sammy got riled up, yelled back, challenged, said yeah it was me and I don't regret it. Shaking, standing there a breath away but too far for Dean to gather in and shush and shield behind him and figure out how they'd survive this.

Dad blamed Sammy, after years of Dean preparing himself, after years of taking responsibility he'd allowed this to happen between them, to be blackened in his father's eye and held to account and absorb the disappointment and rage.

Dad blamed Sammy, was determined it would never happen again.

Dad blamed Sammy, and with plans and forces stronger than Dean, pushed Sammy outside and bundled into the car, fought him off and barreled away. Dean ran, for miles, sucked wind and dust at the outskirts of town they'd lodged near, limped back to the house. Dad returned hours later, icy and seething and alone.

Dean's heart stopped beating.

* * *

The clock read 12:34. Sam's favorite time.

He laughed at it and himself and the hope something would happen. Just because it's the new year, just because it's his favorite time, just because Dean knew that.

Because hoping against hope is everything and the only thing keeping him from falling completely apart.

The house is quiet. No one else is celebrating. Two hunters, friends with each other but not really of his Dad, still took him in granting it wasn't for too long. He hasn't bothered to get to know them—he's aching and empty and in no mood for small talk and they don't care. Sam overhead he's leaving in two weeks so what does it matter anyway.

Sam knows nothing of Dean. Months and months and almost a year without Dean. Without a word or clue and sometimes he doesn't even know what state he's in. Lived with his father's contacts, never heard about before, people Dad saved and felt they owed favors, people who also hunted and had room to stash him if he pitched in sharpening knives or melting silver or researching.

He does it all without complaint. Anything to fill the time. Otherwise he thinks about Dean—about not being with Dean—and it undoes him.

Sam had hotwired a car to try and find Dean. A hunter's car. They tracked him and nabbed him filling up at some truck stop in Oklahoma. Without anything more—and so far from Maine and the house where he last saw Dean and admitting it would be long abandoned, not having a legal license, down to his last twenty bucks—he capitulated and went back with them and bided his time.

For what we wasn't certain.  

It was almost dawn when he finally fell asleep, gritty-eyed and bitter, and his sleep is terrible and without rest.

The two weeks dragged. He chopped wood and disappeared into the forest and translated Latin. Tried not to believe that he's a monster. Discarded. That Dean let him go, in the end.

Two weeks and a day and he's dropped off at a bus station with scant cash and the duffel bag of not-his-stuff acquired since Dad wrenched him from Dean.

He doesn't know who he waited for, but the two hunters were on their way somewhere else and couldn't stay to make sure someone showed. Sam didn't mind. He'd gladly be forgotten at this point.

Two quarters he couldn't afford get him an awful cup of coffee and he nursed it for hours. Busses and passengers come and go in an unsteady flux, never in large number, and no one for him.

Sam checked the clock. About eleven-fifteen. He wanted for 11:11—Dean's favorite time—and cursed his foolishness. He crushed the empty cup in his palm and then stilled.

Pinpricks danced down his arms and up his scalp. Sam stood in a jerk and scanned the tired, bare bus station. His heart skipped a beat.

Dean stepped into view, just outside.

Dean in a thick leather jacket and hoodie pulled low. Dean in unfamiliar, unscuffed boots. Dean, unrecognizable except for every movement and line and thrum of being calling out to the depths of everything Sam was.

He followed Dean's barely perceptible chin lift without question. Nerveless fingers, bloodless limbs, thoughts a scatter. Grabbed the duffel and slipped out the bank of glass doors and watched, trailed Dean a block's distance to a car that's old and beat up but new to them.

Dean cranked the engine and roared from town before Sam could register he'd gotten in the car and had his seatbelt done.

"Were you sent to get me? Are we going back with Dad?" His voice shook.

Dean didn't answer. Tightened both hands on the steering wheel and wouldn't look at him. Eyed the rearview mirrors, body strung like a livewire, grim and drawn.

Sam bit his lip against saying more. But he twisted in the seat and stared, stared at Dean, a void that without being able to look and see and touch and share couldn't be filled.

It hurt too much. Looking, staring, but Dean not reaching out. Not even to pat his arm, offer an admonition for patience, a word. Sam curled in on himself, rested his cheek on the door, pretended this was that someone else to get him and it didn't matter and that every breath scented Dean wasn't a shard.

He didn't understand—not Dean's gaunt silence or coming for him—and couldn't hope this meant anything other than Dad's anger had dulled enough to let him crawl back and be of use. If that was all he got, better than nothing. Better than the apathy, the gnawing quiet, the misery of loneliness and the misery of wondering if Dean was also suffering or chose to let him suffer alone.

Dean drove, relentless and without words. State lines became a blur and Sam fought to stay awake. He woke when the road drone ceased to no one else in the car.

Sam bolted. His legs tangled, cramped and protesting the sudden movement, and he almost ate cold gravel. He blinked into the dark and made out the open vee of a doorway, the low huddle of a building to one side, the realization they were at a motel. Relief cascaded over him when Dean returned and hauled their meager belongings into a room.

He followed and wanted to demand answers, to return to staring, to strip them naked. Instead need took him to the bathroom. He didn't shut the door or flip the lights as Dean snapped a bedside lamp on.

Dean paced the small room. Not caged—restless, on guard, coming down from an adrenaline high Sam sensed but couldn't define.

He took a step. Two. Dean darted past the gap into the bathroom and did shut the door.

Sam perched on the corner of one of the beds and stared at his hands while Dean showered.

"Sam?" Dean sounded dry, cracked, remote.

The uncertainly cut right into him.

Sam looked up, eyes crossed and unfocused, settled his gaze on Dean. Dean, wet-haired and pink-skinned and a threadbare towel knotted at his hip.

"Yeah," he said, couldn't manage anything but flat and weary. He nodded but couldn't rip his gaze from the flex of Dean's abdomen.

"I'm sorry."

Sam didn't react because he didn't know what Dean wanted to say or wanted from him or how to drag his attention from counting Dean's freckles.

After a beat Dean straightened. "Okay, you're pissed. I get it—I deserve it." His fists clenched and he turned. "We'll talk… sometime. Whenever."

He retreated to the bathroom. Got as far as one foot on tiles, then he whirled around, sudden fury, so different from the remembered brand of Dad's anger.

"I'm sorry, Sammy, god I'm so sorry. That I couldn't protect you, that he got you away so quickly I couldn't do anything, that it took so long to find you. I wanted to run after you the second you were gone." His laugh was brittle. "I did. But I knew that wouldn't work. Hid that before Dad got back, hid my plans, hid while I stole money and stockpiled supplies and built that car from a heap at the garage he let me take hours at. While I made everything perfect to get you back so he had no way to find us, to know, to ever do that again." Dean pulled in long, shaken breaths. "Hid how much being without you was killing me."

Sam shot to his feet. "It was?" he demanded, knew the answer, life singing back into him whole and sure and the thrumming he felt at first seeing Dean roared and deafened.

He didn't wait for Dean's words. Reached out, touched those freckles and the devastatingly familiar and beloved shower-warm skin, the jump of muscles under his fingertips. Pushed up for a kiss, mashed his lips to Dean's jaw because Dean was grabbing him close and angling down and they laughed—laughed crazy and hot and amazing—righted and kissed good and real.

Dean understood, immediately understood, didn't make them try to say more.

Sam made a noise so urgent and needy he couldn't contain or hide and Dean was guttural and incoherent beyond kisses and stripping Sam's layers and then the bed. Sam climbed into Dean's lap, bit and nipped and grabbed at whatever he could, as Dean held and let him.

"I was nearly dead," Sam whispered, and their separation melted into meaningless nothing, a wound that would hardly leave a scar. Dean would never allow it again, Sam knew, repeated the vow, arched back with a whimper as Dean's finger circled his hole, pushed, reclaimed.

They didn't get much farther. Couldn't wait. Grappled and rutted and devoured. Smelled each other, marked one another, told of the empty blank ache without their missing half and ecstatic reunion in grunts and low laughter and kisses.

Sam watched Dean make him come, hand wrapped around his cock, aimed to paint Dean's chest. Sam surrendered and let Dean come on his belly, his neck, his cheek. Sam parted his legs and drew Dean in, close, tighter still, and they rocked on the bed and chased their breath until they could start again.

Again and again.

Sam astride Dean leaning on Dean's thighs. Dean pinning him to the bed, facedown, hardly able to get air and loving the trapped security of everything-only-all-awareness Dean. Sam on his side, Dean in his mouth, and then Dean collapsing onto him wanting kisses and sharing their chase to come more than Sam's clever mouth. Well past exhaustion and the middle of the night and murmuring promises and forgiveness and implicit plans for the days ahead, never to be parted.

* * *

Dean checked everything. His guns. The angled lines of sight from the curtained window. Sammy asleep in bed. The motel was just right—far off any interstate, not so far from a reliable state highway as to be strange or notable they stopped here. The room was muted, shrouded and dim, secured. The parking lot was empty. No one but he knew where it was, where they are.

There's no moon tonight, only stars and endless darkness. Just like who they are, and it's just right.

Dean stretched and rolled his shoulders and at last at last at last relaxed. He crawled back into bed behind Sammy, gathered Sammy to him and Sammy turned, offered sleepy kisses, sighed happily willingly perfectly there with him.

This—this finally this as it was always meant—would be the rest of their lives.

He lay and listened to Sammy breathe and pressed his hand against Sammy's heart.

His started again, thundered to match.


End file.
